Quintessential of a Miscreant and Marauder
by Bedraggled Atelier
Summary: Remus is a squib. Just as he is allowed to integrate with Muggles, Remus is branded as a werewolf. He can no longer exist w/o regulation. A fake Hogwarts letter propels him to Knockturn Alley, where he witnesses a murder and is recruited by Greyback. SBRL
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. I have no related ownership to the books.

AU: Remus is a squib. His mother reluctantly allows him to integrate into Muggle society, but when he is branded as a werewolf, Remus cannot exist without regulation. A fake Hogwarts letter propels him to the market and, unintentionally, to Knockturn Alley, where he witnesses a murder and recruited by Greyback into the pack. SBRL

* * *

Cyrilla Lupin stared at the chipped study table with contempt. The shoving and shrieking of the shelves reminded her of a foreign environment. Affairs of old and ancient do not always oblige to familiarity. Her neighborhood was one example. It seemed much easier to leave than to continue to stay. The sight of elegant women, ambling through the streets of Verdil Avenue—swanky garments swaying, batting eyelashes, flirtatious lips squeaky only incoherent stutters and giggles—infuriated the brunette. If she could, she would shake their pseudo-powdered persons!

She tried to chuckle, but the produce ranged lame.

No matter how she cursed those ladies, they were not the victims of ostracism. It felt like yesterday when she carried their lives; but now, how was she to raise a bastard child? This societal structure denounced her; her own kin had forsaken her. From now on, she thought, good fortune was going to be very difficult to find. All those years of waving a wooden stick to convince her peers that, oh, yes, she was a _wizard_. When her mother discovered she bore a squib, she sobbed and refused to leave her bedroom. Her father called the head house-elf, Mompsie, and relinquished the infant to her care before grabbing his coat and shutting the door.

Her mother thinned into a sickly atheistic, porcelain doll with blemishes covered with make-up and potions. Wrinkles often creased underneath her eyes and crinkled along her forehead. When her daughter commented on the _squiggly lines_, Mrs. Lupin rushed to powder her face. She treated her daughter as a pure-blood, but kept her distance. While the other children sparked with magical interest, she began to fret. One day, her daughter asked, "Mummy, why can't I do magic now? They are doing it!"

"Who are _they?_" she demanded, unsure of how she should answer.

"Everyone!"

"Well," she started, "_everyone_, my dear,cannot be talented." Cyrilla sniffed, and her eyes watered. Mrs. Lupin stopped. "Cyrilla, you are a late bloomer. They have the best talent that's why it takes so long to develop."

Cyrilla stared at her mother. "Really?"

Mrs. Lupin sighed with relief. "Yes. Just like a butterfly." She was rewarded with a brilliant smile. Cyrilla wiped her eyes and didn't stop beaming the whole day. In fact, she was so excited and pompous that she boasted to the neighborhood girls. They, in turn, spoke to their parents. Suspicion of the Lupin family's status spread aristocratic families. Master Lupin was the 

family's pureblooded head, and Mrs. Lupin was neither pure nor muggleborn; she was simply a woman caught in the tangles of wealth.

As for Cyrilla, she worked endlessly with reading and studying subjects from Charms to Potions, to Ancient Runes, anything she could get her hands on in the libraries. Her father would bring home souvenirs of books, manuscripts, and scrolls to divert her attention; some were written in foreign languages, but Cyrilla hadn't bothered decipher them. She wasn't one for alien speeches, so she invited her father to translate word for word. He refused. After a strenuous trip, the least I request for is peace, he cried. Nevertheless, Cyrilla was adamant to read to the text. Mrs. Lupin willing aided her in her studies. And Cyrilla Lupin became quite the genius.

At the age of eleven as other children received their acceptance letters, Cyrilla eagerly sat by the window of her bedroom each early morning and night. Her mother retreated to her bedroom, now separate from Master Lupin's. She heard the humming of her child, the creaking of the chair as Cyrilla rocked to and fro, and Mrs. Lupin was filled with guilt. Days passed and still no letter. Cyrilla checked the table, peeked under the doorway, and even ran to each window, just in case the owl had gotten lost. Mrs. Lupin stayed in her room. Faint wailing could be heard outside the door, but Cyrilla was too busy to bother with her mother.

One morning, Mr. Lupin returned home from gallivanting abroad (at least, that was what the evidence pointed). He hooked his latest, coffee stained cloak over the diner table's chair, set loose leaflets on the mahogany table, and sorted through them. A few house elves scurried about their business, but he was too preoccupied to notice. Pippi, one of the younger house elves and the spawn of Mompsie, attempted to take his weathered, dainty cloak. The garment inched.

Pippi cowered.

Mr. Lupin glanced at the elf before delving further into parchments.

A migraine perpetrated his lack of concentration. Too frustrated to continue, Mr. Lupin retired to the master bedroom, leaving the house elf to arrange the scattered paperwork and clean the coffee stain permeating the wooden.

* * *

Master Lupin sipped his morning tea in leisure, in taciturnity. The day was young and morning dew still present on the leaves of the pear tree. The curtains were drawn. The windows of the living room revealed a sluggish rise of radiance, endowing the droplets to sparkle and…ah—drip.

Cyrilla sauntered into the room and abruptly stopped in front of him, shock uninhibited as she openly gaped. "What are _you_ doing here?"

Mr. Lupin looked up. "No 'Welcome home'?" He took a snip.

"You look old," Cyrilla said dryly. "Are you really my father?" He took a mouthful, barely tasting the tea.

Without waiting for a reply, Cyrilla left the room in hostile strides. The head of the house had in fact aged many years before his time. His face was pallid, although not as severe as his wife, and his tuft of prominent, gray hair bowed and waved along his forehead. After years of enduring his wife's tantrums, John Lupin gave in. He had his curls smoothed with recent taste and locks dyed to his original shade. The gray continued to reappear; Mrs. Lupin continued to fuss. As Cyrilla got older, his wife left him alone and even ignored her own tresses. She still kept a decent image. Both had, but her figure and countenance were no longer immaculate. Her daughter, however, entertained them with her panache. Mrs. Lupin would immediately brighten, forgetting all troubles, only to expose a crestfallen expression following Cyrilla.

John found it extremely aggravating. After the birth of Cyrilla, his spouse outright refused to bear another child! She was bound to have another misfortune, Mrs. Lupin cried.

An excited squeal echoed—scuttles padding the floors, shuffling of thin sheets.

There was an upsetting silence with only the swallowing of fluid to be heard. John felt a metaphoric tremor run down his spine.

Cyrilla's jarring keen reminded John of his partner. He found her slumped with her heads resting on the wooden furniture. She lifted her head, angry tears streaming down her puffed cheeks. "Cyrilla, what is wrong?" He spotted a letter with tear blots, smearing some of the ink work. A notable stamp of Hogwarts and the assistance Headmistress's signature confirmed his inquiry.

He knelt down to brown orbs and placed a wrinkled hand on her head. "Come now, Cyrilla—dear—you mustn't cry over such a little thing."

She stared at the button on his top, her feet, and finger nails—anywhere to avoid eye contact.

"There, now, see? It--"

"Liar," she hissed. Before she could continue, she was once again overwhelmed by tears.

Her father stiffened.

"Cyrilla, let me see the letter," he said. John waited. Cyrilla held the letter a while longer, running her pointer along the edges. Without any hesitation she torn the paper in half and then ripped it to shreds as her father, recovered from his trance, restrained her from causing more destruction.

Footsteps lightly floated over the floors. Mrs. Lupin froze, a coffee mug cupped between her hands.

"Cyri—Cyrilla." Cyrilla struggled to loosen her hands. He looked over at his wife. "Martha, help me!" She made no inclination of moving.

"Stop this nonsense at once!"

Without a word, Martha Lupin locked herself in the nearest vacant room.

John Lupin pacified his daughter and left her by the sofa. He picked up his cup of tea and unconsciously tipped it, finally noticing there was nothing there. The cup was empty.

"Mompsie!" The house-elf materialized before him with a _snap_. "Yes, Master Lupin? What can Mompsie do for Master Lupin?"

He handed her the cup without a word and slipped on his overcoat, turning the door knob and slamming the door shut behind him.

The noise frightened Mompsie, and the fragile cup smashed in a heap upon the floor. "No—no, Mompsie terrible…!" Mompsie hunched around the cup. She felt that her kind Master would not return again. She selected a large puzzle of the porcelain and stabbed at her eyeball, collapsing to the ground. "Horrible. Mompsie bad." Chips of broken ceramic imposed themselves in the skin of a long-eared elf.

When Pippi and Toby found their mother, they share the most peculiar expression. Specialists said they were incapable of showing remorse against law, yet as the pair watch blood ooze from the body they suddenly felt overwhelmed.

* * *

The moment the door relented, the pale face of her mother stepped onto the intricate carpet as if she epitomized the structure of a Lady. Mrs. Lupin announced, "You will be homeschooled. If any pry, inform them that you will be taught by the finest instructors of which Hogwarts cannot contest."

Cyrilla was rendered speechless. "M-Mum, there is a way for me to learn sorcery?"

"There is none." Cyrilla felt a painful throb. Her mother continued, "Until then, tell no one of your predicament. A wand--"

"Is that all you care for?" Cyrilla whispered, almost afraid to hear the answer. She turned towards her mother in a ghoul like motion. "Then, what am I to do?"

Her mother carried on as if she hadn't spoken a word. "A wand will be made for you. It will be reasonably sturdy and--"

"WHAT WILL I DO?" Her voice developed into a hysterical shrill. "Are you going to lock me up here till I go mad?

Something stirred within Cyrilla, and she broke into tears.

Martha said nothing.

Even with her water works, Cyrilla consented. She would play the thespian to the social class and find a suitable, prosperous husband. He didn't have to be pureblood. Martha, herself, wasn't pureblood. John was an estranged one. Money kept him up. Muggle was not an option. Her daughter knew nothing about the Muggle world, too captivated by the Wizarding world. She would have to find a wizard man. Together, they would disappear. As a mother, she wanted her daughter to be happy. If all goes well, Cyrilla would be dead to the Wizarding community and live happily far away.

Right after her decision, Martha followed an awful stench. She found Toby and Pippi huddle against one another, staring wide-eyed at a decaying corpse. Martha hired a servant to dispose of the body and agreed to his request for a stable job.

* * *

**Present**

The packing had stopped. Cyrilla peered at the quivering forms of the house elves from the corner of her eye. Their petite figures and bulging eyes shift directly to her feet. When they caught her eye, both squeaked in chorus. Upon realizing their mistake, both glanced at the other, hesitation sculptured into their defined wrinkles.

"Well?" Her voice lowered dangerously, "What have you to say?" One stepped forward cautiously, stuttering a short reply, but the only works she could make out was "Toby and Pippi…w-worry about M-Mistress's health…"

There was silence.

Brows knitted together. The concern only proved to enrage her further; it served as an echo of her previous thought, a reminder of the bastard who ruined everything!

Misinterpreting her Mistress's motionless form, Pippi continued from behind Toby, "…the baby, M-Mistr--"

Without warning Cyrilla grabbed the closest house elf by the neck and slammed him into the polished floor. Her nails pierced the layer of skin. The house elf, recovered from the initial shock, pleaded with the woman whilst his fist pounded against his skull. Pippi had come to Cyrilla's side in an effort to soothe the frantic bawling. The screaming, which Cyrilla could no longer discern as her own, accrued to a raucous disturbance. A manservant entered the room, panting, and stumbled against the door frame in a slight, drunken stupor before quickly disengaging Cyrilla from Toby, but could not pry her right hand away from Toby's ankle.

**_Flashback to Present_**

Years passed and Cyrilla firmly accepted her fate. She dressed herself extravagantly with cheap and homemade materials, a replica of a luxury gown, if a connoisseur never observes the fabric, a pair of golden slippers with silver linings—her face was powdered adequately, and her neck decorated with fandangles. There were very few jewels in the household. After John left, he never came back. The mother and daughter were forced to sell excessive items to surreptitious peddlers.

The manservant's loyalty did not waver even as the pay was lowered. Cyrilla had suspicions that he was having an affair with Martha.

She took on various trades in Knockturn Alley. In the evenings after the parties, Cyrilla, disguised by her hood, went to trade the various plants she grew and homemade materials. They were far cheaper than store prices on Diagon Alley, so they were an enormous success!

At a Halloween event sponsored by her acquaintance, she met John Martin, a man a decade ahead of her. She was fifteen then. He was dreadfully romantic and clumsy. Cyrilla adored him, and he returned her affections. They became engrossed with their love and visited each other day after day…after day. The morning Cyrilla became of age, she waited anxiously for Martin to propose. Although she told no one of their involvement, she still felt the same pride being in his arms.

She wasted no time. Cyrilla left the petite manor and rushed to John's exquisite estate. A house elf responded to the ring and ushered her inside. She waited awkwardly at the door as the house-elf went to retrieve his Master.

John greeted her with a grin. She smiled prettily for him. His actions were odd, nervous and twitchy. He constantly rubbed his sweaty palms together. Impulsively, he asked her hand in marriage. No protocol or forewarning. "Oh—I have a ring," Martin searched through his pockets. Empty. He patted his clothing. "Oh—Err—one moment."

He left the entrance and rummaged through shelves. Cyrilla trailed him, peering curiously in. The room was elegant with sumptuous furniture, mosaic wallpaper and opulent, golden glows drifting through the window pane.

"Here it is!" John said.

He took her hand in his own and placed a small item, wrapped in a handkerchief, which she believed he had devised hastily. With her other hand, she unwrapped the handkerchief. "Wait—wait," he said, hindering her progression. "I haven't asked yet."

"Ask what?"

John proposed and then went off to fight for the war against Grindelwald. Cyrilla accompanied her demented mother to assorted duties. The days were dull, and Cyrilla no longer wished for luxury. She wanted her love back. Nightmares plagued her. Would John leave her like her father? Only then did she realize he shared her John Lupin's name.

At twenty-seven years old Cyrilla prepared the ceremony for her mother's funeral. The healers had contacted her while she was celebrating with other ladies. She immediately flooed to St. Mungo's Hospital. The healer told her that her mother was in a critical state. They informed her that her mother had been in the ward for two days, but she begged them not to notify her daughter. "Martha Lupin," he said, "did not want to alarm you."

Cyrilla didn't hear the source and refused to loiter until Martha became a convalescent. She departed.

Her mother hadn't passed away, after all. She cancelled the arrangements of seating and flowers. The grave manager required her to pay a closing fee. Elder women who cried and scowled at her for her nonchalant approach were apprehensive of her words. They believed Cyrilla had craved attention. She argued that her mother was in the hospital and guided them to Martha.

"Do you yearn for your Mum's death?" an especially wrinkled hag castigated.

Cyrilla exhaled and pinched the bridge of her nose.

Cyrilla's mum was welcomed by pitying graying women, intentionally disheveling their composure for her.

Ding.

"Can you get that, dear?" Cyrilla acquiesced.

She opened the door with a slight _huff_, wondering where those house-elves were. An outsized bouquet of exotic irises tied in a neat bow, held up by large hands, and long legs clothed in black trousers. Cyrilla couldn't seem to find a head. Guests came in numbers to cajole Martha Lupin.

"Please, come in," she said, feinting appreciation. "If you don't mind a company of elderly women, that is."

"How—?"

"Mother is doing fine," she interrupted and increased her vocal speed. "Disregard the previous comment. The company is wonderful. I said _come in_."

She swiped the flowers from his arms. The lanky figure had a chubby face dotted with spontaneous freckles and a large, straight nose. He had a disheveled mop on his head.

"Mum sent me," he said. "She's an old friend of Misses—err—your mum."

"_Martha Lupin_," she emphasized, "doesn't have any _friends_."

The freckled boy was named Aimeus. He settled at the manor almost more than she. Cyrilla ignored the young man and his advances. Overtime, she grew to respect him, and he loved her. Cyrilla was no longer an adolescent. Martin would want an experienced woman, she thought. Aimeus could be her practice. Cyrilla watched as Aimeus morphed into a handsome man with a thin but lean build and soft curls of pale blonde. He too was recruited to the war.

When the announcements of the war's end were printed in the Daily Prophet, Cyrilla was poking her deformed breakfast. She sprinted to John's estate.

The couple never officially married, but John invited Cyrilla and Martha to live in his manor. Cyrilla recklessly sold the manor house and unpacked, as if their relationship had already stabled. Martha hobbled into the room with her trunk, behind her Toby and Pippi, and the manservant whom name's Cyrilla could not recall.

Cyrilla felt very ill and her stomach felt bloated, and her mother caught her several times rubbing her belly whilst grimacing at her reflection. Soon, it was impossible for her to hide it from John. The moment John discovered he called for a doctor. The doctor smiled toothily at her, "Congratulations, Mrs. Martin," she frowned, "it is a baby boy."

Cyrilla didn't care for the gender of the embryo. "Mrs. Martin" reverberated on her conscious mentality. They have yet to marry. That night Martin and she bickered. She told him everything, and he left her for sleep.

Martin eventually forgave Cyrilla and promised to raise the child as his own. They still didn't have their wedding, but Cyrilla did not push the issue.

On March 10, 1960, a newborn with wisp of light, pastel hair whined and gave deafening cries, disturbing the other babies into hysteria. Martin felt like bawling with them. Cyrilla hit the pillows and closed her eyelids with a frustrated sigh.

No one slept that night.

* * *

**Five years later**

Remus Lupin startled his unsuspecting father as he returned home. The wrinkles concerning his face stretched to allow a conspicuous smile. Mr. Martin embraced him lovingly while the sandy-haired child squirmed for freedom. His father relented with a chuckle.

"Marty, I ate cookies today!" Since Martin was not his certified father or Cyrilla's spouse, he believed it was best to raise Remus with that approach; but he couldn't help but give Remus special privileges.

It had been three years and some months since they packed their luggage and personal belongings, a few memorabilia here and there, and Martha Lupin had unbolted the locks on the exit to find them gone with only official papers, bestowing the estate to Martha Francis Lupin, to trace them. She thanked her fortunes, and the jubilant grandmother fastened the documents inside _her_ abode.

Martin kneeled to his eye level. "Oh? Did your mum buy them for you?"

"Mummy baked them!" Remus said, salivating almost from the memory. "She's the best baker!"

"Is she really?" Martin mused. The little boy leaped onto Martin and clasped his arms around his guardian's neck. Martin carried the mischievous youngster away from the entryway.

"Is that you, Martin?" Cyrilla called from the kitchen.

Martin leaned over Remus's ear. "What sort of cookie is your mum making?" Remus shielded his mouth and whispered, "Chocolate cookies."

"What did she put in them?" For all the boy knew, chocolate meant brown pastries, but so did burnt chow. "Can you remember?"

Remus tilted his head in contemplation. "Chocolate."

"Anything else?" Martin said, insubstantially peeved. Remus shook his head.

"Cyrilla?" he said a little unnerved. "Is everything alright?"

Cyrilla wandered over to the duo, platter of freshly scorched lumps; the smell was appetizing, but the image of smothering coals did nothing to seduce his brooding stomach. He wondered the significance of Remus's earlier mark about eating said cookies. "I find it very hard to believe that you _ate_ cookies today, Remus. Are you sure you swallowed?" Martin playfully inquired.

"I'll have you know that Remus _devoured_ them."

"Rubbish." Martin turned back to Remus. "Now, Remus, son, eating entails that you chew the food."

"You're being ridiculous," she said sulkily. "These are the _bad _ones. I was going to scrap them."

"I need to speak with Martin, Remus." Martin understood her hidden agenda. "Kitchen?" Cyrilla swerved and disappeared behind the corner, which lead to the kitchen. Remus, confusion written on his face, looked intently at Marty. The corner of his mouth twitched into a lopsided grin. Remus smiled back.

Curiosity got the better of young Remus. He tugged on the gentleman's cloth. "What is it, Remus?"

"Why did Mummy cook moles?"

* * *

"Remus must become accustomed to Muggle people. You can't expect him to live in the Wizarding World. Wizards aren't fond of squibs, Cyrilla, and children can be awfully cruel. He's practically defenseless!"

"I lived in the Wizarding World. Do you see me using magic?" Cyrilla said. "Besides, we know nothing of Muggles."

Martin gently rubbed her shoulders. "Cyrilla, we can learn. Remus is young; children learn fast. He will adapt better than us. I don't want Remus to have to _pretend_."

"Where are we going to live?" Cyrilla tried, but Martin could tell her obduracy waned. "Because I don't plan on living in a hovel."

"We'll find somewhere," Martin stroked her locks. "We found this place, didn't we?"

"Yes, I supposed we did," she sniffed.

Martin smiled.

It was decided. The family would move to London and allow their son to integrate into Muggle civilization. It would be better this way. Squibs were treated as second-rate citizens and despised by purebloods even more so than Muggle-borns. Martin was neither a Fob nor did he care for propriety.

The carefree evenings didn't last. That day Martin had accomplished a terrible task. He had offended Fenrir Greyback.

Martin forbade any of the household from wandering outside after dark, especially on the night of the full moon. Remus was naïve. When he heard scratching noises and a flash of dark fur, he brightened. He had never heard of a werewolf, but he saw dogs when his mum took him to the park. The little boy ignored Marty's heed and chanced a meeting with his elder. He stood of his tiptoed and reached for the handle, but the tips of his digits barely graze the bottom of the lever. Martin had charmed the knobs to heights above Remus, anticipating Remus's quiet, rebellious nature.

He wanted to see the pup. Pilfering the stool from the kitchen and volumes of Charm Your Own Cheese and The Tales of Beedle the Bard, Remus stacked them tandem. He even made stairs and pillars.

The knob twisted and yielded. Remus hopped off the architecture, a breeze billowing up his night top, sending a shiver down his spine, and landed bare feet in the cold cement stairways. He whistled experimentally for the hound, but the effects were more of a raspberry.

He looked around and back before heading further down the steps. The gates creaked. It would have been easier if he used the yard door. Leaves and other uncomfortable earth stuck to his feet, and the crunch made him paranoid. With each step, Remus checked for signs of Marty and his mother. He took another step.

There was a strange growling, but before he could investigate, he felt razor-sharp teeth embedded in the flesh of his thigh. He let out a painful screech. A heavy weight had long since forced his body to the ground. Tears momentary blinded him. Remus screamed louder, tearing streaming freely down his cheeks. He didn't notice when the weight was lifted, and Martin started rocking him. He felt a pang from his head. He didn't notice when the leaves glued to his wet cheeks or the small cuts around his arms. His attention was centered on the chuck taken from his flesh, layers of muscles were uncovered and a thin sheet of skin shielded the white band; he felt the unbearable throbbing, and his vision dimmed from blood lost and nausea.

* * *

Remus awoke to the screaming of Marty's and his mother's quarrel. The other patients gave him a queer sort of look. A woman of eighteen distanced herself cautiously. Amber marbles took to following her across the room until he pin pointed a heart-shaped box. She collided against the patient's side table, groping the corners for support, never taking her eyes away from Remus in case he proved to be violent.

The package occupied his interest. _Chocolate_. In that cardboard box held assortments of chocolate. The lid, polished with red gerber, shined in the monotony, kipping cube. Remus heaved himself up, falling back with a cry from a ripping ache. Snapping jaws plunging into his thigh and snarling saliva burning his wounds, the furry animal so very different from the mutts he previously encountered. An unfamiliar wrap bound around his head. His hand trembled. Sweeping away his tawny hair away, he felt bandages tightened too well.

He looked back at the woman. Remus was frightened, and any human contact was openly welcomed. _Hello. _Or at least he aimed for a decent syllable, but it came out as a hoarse whine.

The red box plummeted to the tiled floor, and the woman skidded pass the vicious combination of man and woman.

* * *

A/N: I didn't notice I gave Cyrilla's father the name John until I started writing about her husband. I don't know when the war Grindelwald started and ended. I just know that Dumbledore was born in 1881, and Remus in 1960. Sorry. ;;

This is my first slash. I just hope it isn't too terrible. I just appealed for a Beta Reader, so there will probably be editing. Let's hope she accepts! I don't think the plotline will change majorly, though. Thank you for taking the time to read this!


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. I have no related ownership to the books.

_Snapping jaws plunging into his thigh and snarling saliva burning his wounds, the furry animal so very different from the mutts he previously encountered. An unfamiliar wrap bound around his head. His hand trembled. Sweeping away his tawny hair away, he felt bandages tightened too well._

**Chapter 1**

Although Cyrilla and Martin escaped from the Wizarding World to their far-from-paradise vicinity, the place was practically deserted. Cyrilla and Remus could not use magic, but Martin could not rid of the habit of using magic for practical chores. The Ministry of Magic did not concern themselves with such an insignificant group—that is, until an insinuation came from Lucius Malfoy. The Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures buzzed with languid and stiff employees, following daily routine. The Werewolf Capture Unit assigned to confine a _Remus Lupin _scoffed at the information. They would take precaution in detaining the squib, but he could do no other harm, maybe even vulnerable than most.

The unit of five gathered and apparated, a _snap _or two popping for each person amid intervenes.

Gregory Williams of the Beast Department did not bother with the door. The group apparated into the reasonably large house. Before them was Martin, bewilderment firmly intact, Cyrilla, overcome with horror at the feet, and Remus, wide-eyed, purity seem to discharge from the child. Their dirt encrusted boots smeared the white carpet Cyrilla had impeccably sanitized.

The brunette winced.

Martin glared daggers at the intruders. He shot up from the couch in hopes of attaining a more intimidating stance, but the top of his head only reached to the chin of Williams. "What is the meaning of this?"

"John Martin and Cyrilla Lupin, you are hereby charged for the negligence of a minor."

Martin bristled.

"Remus is the only minor here." said Martin, a dark shade of red gradually consuming his exterior from rage. He looked almost ill with veins more apparent than Remus had ever seen before. "Does he look malnourished to you? On what accounts are we fugitives?"

Remus shook his head in agreement and followed Marty's example, although he couldn't quite get the lavender blush he had achieved. Cyrilla stood also and her face equally red as Martin's but for additional reasons.

"For prolonging the registration of the werewolf, a requirement stated in the Beast Department guidelines," Williams continued, "John Martin and Cyrilla Lupin will lose custody of Remus Lupin."

Cyrilla gasped. Her eyes shot away from the carpet.

"The Ministry of Magic also deemed squibs optional to registration in the Wizarding World. My son and I are not wizards--"

"But you husband is," one wizard piped. He was relatively short compare to Williams, but most are shorter than the bulky man. The assembly concealed his dull features and banal style, making his almost impossible to notice. Cyrilla glowered at him.

"Wait," Martin gave a furtive attempt. "We are not married. There was no need to register Remus or Cyrilla."

"Are you prepared to accept the punishment of three months in Azkaban--" Martin blanched, and Cyrilla looked on the verge of combustion. "—for the hazardous position you have placed on these Muggles."

"Just a minute--" Cyrilla injected, but Martin intervened.

"Yes."

She looked about to insert her own opinions on the enforcers. Martin took her hand and whispered softly in her ear. The Unit narrowed their eyes in suspicion. Cyrilla pursed her lips and stood behind Remus, combing her delicate fingers through his tawny hair.

"Hullo, Remus," said an orthodox man next to Williams. There was a distinct contrast between the mild demeanor and his coarse accent. "I'm Loch Edward, and this--" pointing to Williams, "—is Gregory Williams. Erica Nubledon--" A tall, black haired woman nodded. "Jackie--"

"I prefer not to be recognized, please."

"Same here," said the same average man from before.

Loch Edward, a man in his forties with slanted eyes and thick partially finished eyebrows, an enormously large brow, and a thick, callous neck, waved him away. "Don't bother with them, Remus."

"Okay," said Remus lamely. The petite boy had watched as his parents fretted over these men and woman. He didn't know how to react to the "policemen". Would they really take him away? "Mummy, why are they here?"

Cyrilla chewed on her bottom lip, searching for a sufficient answer. Martin and she exchanged looks of the same uncertainty. Remus shifted between the two. Williams, who had remained silent, pulled out a deck of cards and voiced, "We're going to the Ministry."

The black haired woman shoved Martin closer to the Portkey while Cyrilla purposely strolled over in snail's speed and leisurely placed her hand over his. Remus stared at the deck of cards. Both Martin and Cyrilla were unsure of whether he should be a resident of the Wizarding or Muggle World; therefore, he knew barely enough of technology and nothing of the Wizarding World beside the glimpses he caught in the picture-less book his mum enjoyed to read. From the mystified appearance Cyrilla deduced an uncertainly.

"Give me your hand, Remus," said Cyrilla.

Remus obeyed.

Many sorts of hands shielded the deck from Remus's vision. He couldn't help but ask, "What are we doing?"

"This is a Portkey, boy," someone grunted. "Been living in the wilderness?"

"Technically, they have--" The speech was abruptly cut as the portkey activated, and the Unit and family were sent off into a dizzy display of colors. Remus shut his eyes, and when he felt a stop, the scene had altered. He looked up at the elevated, royal dipped ceilings and marveled at the grandeur of the rich dark wood flooring, the rush of Monday morning as visitors spare them only one curious glance before hurrying off. His mother collapsed to her knees. "Ohh, how--" She racked her brain for the right description. Martin tried to help her up, but the two guards immediately ushered him down the hall, and he disappeared around the corner.

"Now, wait one moment!" screamed Cyrilla. "How can he be sent to Azkaban that quickly? Shouldn't he be allowed a hearing?"

Although Cyrilla experience wizards through books and occasional interactions between acquaintances and social gathers, she didn't often hear of such prejudice. Her friend once commented on how "dreary a topic" werewolves were. Random strangers didn't stop her on the streets just to lecture of werewolves. She had read the stories, encyclopedias, and journeys of wizards who came close to being bitten. Cyrilla had never thought that such prejudice could make one forget that Remus was only a toddler. _He is only a babe_, she thought. The lighting in the room was beginner to distort her image. She wiped her eyes, only to withdraw it wet. Her cheeks were soggy and her make-up smeared, but she couldn't recall shredding a single tear. When Edward placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, he received a sharp slap.

The tawny boy felt depress just by staying near his mother. He didn't understand the situation, but he wanted to chase after Marty. If he didn't, he felt he would commence a ritual of blubbering in a crowd of hazy heads. Remus scuttled distances away from Loch, whose efforts to persuade his mother to situate to a more comfortable area were ignored. Each step brought him a little closer. He felt so very proud of himself. Before he was about to turn, he heard, "Cheer up, Mrs. Lupin--" A resonating smack. "I'm not a Misses!"

Just as he was about to congratulate himself on such a feat, Remus turned right. More directions and walls with many doors a foot apart were all closed. He turned every one, noticing the icy texture of the knob. All the doors were locked, and he could hear nothing from inside. There were no open spaces below the doors for peeking.

A shadow gloomed over the only source of light. Remus turned. A handsome boy with dark wavy and cropped hair, clothed in a luxurious set and shiny shoes, bickered—from Remus's view—a wall. Even though his voice was raised, the boy didn't seem resentful. His broad smile gave him away. Remus thought he resembled the dashing prince in the fairytales. The wall chuckled humorously back at the handsome boy. Both seem to share so much enjoyment as their voice intended that Remus couldn't help but laugh at the witty retorts.

The handsome boy glanced at Remus's direction before looking back. Messy black hair appeared from the wall and beamed at Remus.

"Evening!"

They walked closer to Remus, prompting the tawny haired boy to backset. Up close the messy haired boy's hair looked every more untidy. The handsome boy didn't seem to share the same enthusiasm as the bird nest. "Get out of here!"

Remus flinched.

"We found this first!" said the handsome boy.

_No, you did not._

"Sirius, we can share," said the bird nest diplomatically. "But we're the leaders."

Remus held back an instinctive snarl. He came here first. He didn't want to play the lackey for two bullies, but the boys had matured earlier than him, and Remus didn't want to provoke them.

"James, I don't want to play with a _baby_," said Sirius. He caught Remus staring at him and growled. "Stop looking at me!"

Remus had had enough. He clicked his heels forwards and swiftly turned right and then another right. He didn't stop until he was sure the fake prince and his disarrayed friend did not follow him. He felt a little disappointed but only a smidge. He hadn't come in contact with many boys his age. If every boy was this those two, he thought, he could live without them. He froze. _Aren't I a boy, too?_

A hand surprised Remus out of his exploration. "Where are you going?" said Loch cheerfully. "The Werewolf Registry is the other way."

Whenever anyone passed, Loch greeted them with crude jokes. Some even asked why his jokes were less lewd than usual. The outlandish men simply incline his head over to Remus. The squib found this highly insulting. He wasn't a baby. Surely, he could handle anything they said; they are just words. And he voiced this. The friends would merely cackle without restrain.

"'S not funny," he murmured.

The man said his goodbyes and left Loch with Remus. Loch quickened his pace. Remus had a vague feeling the man wanted to be rid of him. They came to an elevator lift with gold grilles, packed with large amounts of office bound witches and wizards. Loch nudged the werewolf cub into the lift and accompanied him up the claustrophobic cubicle. No matter how squished everyone was to another, Remus found it amazing and utterly useless how witches gossiped and wizards chattered.

Each time the elevator halted, Remus implored silently that this was their destination. Finally, the lift stopped once again, and a hand pushed Remus out of the boot. He breathed in the artificial scent of the building. Never had he felt so grateful for oxygen.

"Registry is right through that door. See?" he pointed at the second door to the left of the untitled office. "You're a big boy, right, Remus? I'm sure you can go yourself."

_He definitely not all bad_, Remus thought, revering Loch's compliment. He nodded vigorously. As Remus rush toward the Registry, Loch had already gone for his lunch break. The atmosphere was dreary and the lackluster employees called out, "Jane Biston." Occupants laid clipboards on their laps, scribbling then pausing. He felt foolish without a clipboard and quill.

"Excuse me," said Remus quietly. The nearest hand desisted. Auburn hair swept out of the person's obscured mug. When Remus did not immediately ask, the impatient woman said, "Yes?"

"Er…" He seemed to have momentarily lost his voice. He pointed to the set in her grip.

She raised the feathered pen. "Quill?" she whispered. She observed the indoor clothing over his small form and shoe-less feet. A thought came to mind, but she ejected the implication. He nodded slowly. "You need to speak up. What do you need?"

"I—I—err—have no--" He resorted to pointing at the clipboard and paperwork.

She finally recognized that expression. She had shared the same one. "What's your name?" The ginger haired woman asked.

"Remus."

"Remus—what?"

"Remus Lupin."

"It is certainly a pleasure to meet you, Remus Lupin." The woman introduced herself as Jones Quackenboss, would rather keep her age unknown; makes her mystique. She was a child of a mousy man and a Muggle business woman—the "average" kind, born in Bison, U.K. and currently is unemployed. "The Ministry's maintaining a tight regime." It didn't bother her. She didn't have the grades when attending Hogwarts, either; her OWLS and Newts were atrocious! Her mother had even threatened to disown her. She never did, though (At this, Remus breathed in relief). She had moved to London just a few years ago. An unfortunate accident transpired, and she ended up in the hospital with healers sprinting around with dangerous equipment and their wands, a weapon. Apparently, the trauma didn't knock her out. "And here I am!" She ended. "Oh, right. I forgot." Jones lifted up her cloak, revealing scarred tissues around her ankle.

Remus swallowed down bile and grimaced.

"Oh! Sorry," said Jones abashedly. "How old are you, Remus?"

"Five."

"Five! Remus, where are your parents?"

"I don't know." His voice wavered. Through the excitement, he had forgotten about Marty. He had indistinctively remembered Loch with his mother, but when Loch escorted him, Cyrilla was not present.

"Do you have anyone? Siblings? Close relative? Maybe family's friend?"

Remus shook his head, negative. "Do you know how to fill out your information?"

Silence.

"For you Werewolf Registration," she spelled out.

"I don't want to be a werewolf," said Remus.

"Remus," Jones set her clipboard aside, quill set on top, "you're already a werewolf."

"I'm not," he denied.

Jones looked at the child. She had thought he was like herself, but he may have been a lost child. "Were you bitten?"

"Yes," Remus confessed, "a big, black dog."

"A big dog?" she repeated slowly. "You sure?"

He contemplated, and then nodded, assured.

Jones patted the seat next to her. Remus complied. The floor was cold even with his socks. The seats were connected and tinted in a murky gray, very much like the other aspects of the waiting room. Wooden floors were poorly kept with dust mice scurry between angles and flying through the air from the draft.

He waited for Jones to finish her lengthy paperwork with boredom.

A graying wizard behind the counter looked up as Jones handed him her documents. He received it and left it in the pile of ready-to-be filed papers. "Is there something else?"

"This little boy--" She looked around, directing him to Remus, who was occupied with scoping out the room and its bedraggled dwellers. "Remus." She motioned him over.

* * *

A/N: My little sister just made a good point. Why didn't I just write the whole story then post?

Review?


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. I have no related ownership to the books.

_A handsome boy with dark wavy and cropped hair, clothed in a luxurious set and shiny shoes, bickered—from Remus's view—to a wall. Even though his voice was raised, the boy didn't seem resentful. His broad smile gave him away. Remus thought he resembled the dashing prince in the fairytales. The wall chuckled humorously back at the handsome boy. Both seem to share so much enjoyment as their voice intended that Remus couldn't help but laugh at the witty retorts._

**Chapter 2 – Sirius**

Number twelve, Grimmauld Place, hidden between number eleven and number thirteen, prepared for a fiasco of pureblood family members and their children; Kreacher, the Black family house-elf bestowed with a peak nose and rabbit ears, meticulously situated the china and silverware individually. The manor was buzzing with the mistress's demands and arrangements of highly prized, albeit newly purchased acquisitions, for they were to be used once for a singular, stunning impact. Suddenly, porcelain ceramic was snatched from the table. Walburga Black inspected the spotted dish with dismay.

"What is this, Kreacher?"

The house-elf looked uncertain at the flatware. No one but Mrs. Black seemed to distinguish the hideous stain on the pure, white plate. She thrust the plate into Kreacher's arms and ordered him to rewash it. From the topmost corridor Sirius could almost hear his mother click her tongue and see the foaming frustration at the closest object as he left his bedroom without closing the door. Only Regulus and him shared this floor, and with the preparation of tonight's festivities, his mum was far too busy to raid his room—instead contented on ordering the house-elf who also could not touch his belongings.

Sirius Orion Black was ten years of age. His nine-years-old brother, Regulus, sat beside him on the steps; he kept shooting Sirius's nervous glances as if his would impulsively jump over the rails. "Sirius, you could fall."

"Relax," said Sirius, hands gripping on either sides of the railing and legs freely swaying in mid-air. "I won't."

He hoped to reassure his brother even with his curt speech, but the outcome did not improve; in fact, Regulus looked even more terrified than before. The handsome boy felt himself shake with laughter. Then, his brother looked up. "Hi, Dad…."

"Dad?" Sirius immediately twirled about, losing grip (it didn't help that his palms were sweaty) and would have tumbled down the many steps below had his father not act on impulse. He chuckled weakly at Orion Black, his heart still pounding with adrenaline. Regulus mirrored his expression behind his father. He couldn't help but be reminded of their similar looks as he saw his reflection in Regulus's orbs.

"Sirius," Orion reprimanded, "what were you doing? You could have been killed!"

"I wasn't--" He felt a tinged of optimism.

"What example are you setting for Regulus?" Sirius felt disappointment brew in the pits of his chest. "He's your younger brother! How can you be so idiotic?" Orion finished and waited for an answer. Feeling foolish for the glimpse of hope he had acquired, Sirius ignored the last statement.

"Regulus is only one year younger than me!"

"Sirius, that doesn't change that you are the eldest! Regulus isn't the next heir!"

"Then let him be since you and Mum adore him so much!" He couldn't help but feel envious towards his brother. Even when his parents berated him, they always brought up Regulus. He was a perfect, gentlemanly pureblooded royal. Why couldn't Sirius act more like him? Set a good example. Sirius yanked his arm away and stomped down the stairs, his father in tow. "SIRIUS!"

Mrs. Black was too busy yelling, her aggravated screeches override Mr. Black's anger-filled shouts, at the self-punishing Kreacher to notice her son's small shadow further down the hall. Sirius rolled his eyes. _Typical_. He overlooked his mother's precious troll leg umbrella rack, disgusted with the display. His mother finally found a unique antique that wasn't flimsy enough for him to break or coveted to touch.

He closed the door quietly; otherwise, his mother would chase him back. As he treaded down the cemented, polluting flight of steps to the sidewalk, dipping his head to avoid the eyes of his Muggle neighbors in their shaggy clothes.

-

Meanwhile, Remus slumbered peacefully after the night of the full moon. The house was a one room individual building not much different from a shack except for its stable, low ceilings and simple furniture. When Martin was arrested, Cyrilla planned to move them to her mother's, or Martin's previous estate, but Martha Lupin refused. She believed her daughter had a quarrel with her husband and wouldn't listen.

"Cyrilla, if you keep running from your problems, they will keep coming back!"

Their conversation wasn't even face-to-face. Her mother refused to open the door.

She resorted to buying a temporary home. It was a clean, quaint little thing out in the woods and beside a small pond; the space was clear, and Remus was small. The toads in the pond kept him company, and the secluded area allowed him to wander without worry. Animated pictures waved, aware of a spectator just a few inches from reach. Cyrilla waved through the makeshift window frame.

Cyrilla sighed.

It was painful to remember. The Ministry had condemned Martin to three months, but he hadn't returned. Cyrilla returned often enough. She brushed out the knots and dressed up stunningly, then decently, for that was all she had. John Martin didn't appear, not even his ghost gloomed. In any case as a lover, she figured they never released him.

The clump of blanket bleated _mm—_and rolled. She set a vial of purple liquid, labeled Wound-Cleaning Potion; it sloshed and fizzed along the rims before dying into popping, miniscule bubbles.

--

The curls of Cyrilla had long faded to bustle of web hair. Sometimes, the stereotype fit her more than Remus.

The house-elf made an unappreciatively gurgle in his throat but allowed her in. _Kreacher has a half-mind to shut the door on ugly Squib's face_, Kreacher muttered; the elf must have bordered on senility; he—and she hoped it wasn't a she—looked much older than Toby and Pippi. Cyrilla was a bit apprehensive but expect

She calmed herself; it wouldn't do if her client refused her presentation because she throttled their house-elf with expensive umbrellas. Most likely they would expect reimbursement—an expense she couldn't afford—both literally and figuratively.

Cyrilla marveled at the entryway of Grimmauld Place. She followed Kreacher into the long and narrow, in invitation, hallway, culminating to the bright light room with a large chandelier, hanging on the very lofty ceilings. Cyrilla suspected that each floor of this grand mansion inspired such ornate canvases.

A tapping followed her in. She turned.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize there were other guests," said Cyrilla absentmindedly without looking up. "My name is Cyrilla Lupin. Are you here on business as well?"

"Sirius Black, and no, I'm underage." _Rather squeaky_, she thought. _Sounds hardly like a mature adult._ Cyrilla took in his striking appearance and pricey clothes. _A child_. _How ridiculous of me!_ She paused. _Sirius Black._ "O-oh."

Cyrilla fidgeted with the helms of her blouse, avoiding eye contact with the Black heir. Instead, she focused her attention on the rest of the residence. Every splash of color was delicately applied, though rather repetitive, and it took her breath away.

"It must be wonder to live here," whispered Cyrilla, but Sirius had heard.

"Not really."

She blushed, mortified that a child had heard her fantasizing—of his _own_ home, no less. Children were difficult to handle. Remus was a timid child with no authority, but this boy held a fortune over her head. One wrong move and Mr. Black could sever all ties with the woman. _This is for _

_Remus_, she reiterated…. _for Remus._ Without Martin's aid and her mother's techniques, Cyrilla didn't know any nearby source to attain ingredients for Remus's potions.

As Cyrilla entertained the boy with her presence, she couldn't help but feel intimidated. Even her as her sentences dwindled, the majestic heir did not care to move. The boy's pretension suffocated the poor woman. Cyrilla shut her eyes and took a deep breath. If she could not handle the spawn of her uninsured employer, how was she to impress upon Mr. Black?

Somehow, she thought, he must be childish. He could simply be a self-indulgent brat, discouraging the wisdom of others and preferring the automatic glory left by the legacy of his father. Cyrilla peaked from beneath her lids, staring straight into the face of Sirius Black. She sucked in her breath.

"Why so green?"

"E-Excuse me?"

"Your face."

"Ah…."

Cyrilla felt so foolish. Sirius Black, even so, wasn't bothered by the lack of coherent speech on her side. "What sort of 'business' are you proposing to my dear father?"

She couldn't shake off that blatant display of sarcasm. Is this a test? The actions of the young Black seemed to dawn on her; he was certainly acting as an agent for this father. It was surely an ingenious strategy to root out bad intentions. Cyrilla smiled to herself.

"As a matter of fact, yes," said Cyrilla. "Your father and I have a set appointment today. Would you be so kind as to appeal to him?"

She didn't dare to ask him to "fetch" his father.

The boy watched her knowingly. "I would rather not. I'm not his keeper, _Miss_."

"Excuse me?" she uttered.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said with a snarky tone. "I didn't think you were a misses. No man in his right mind would marry a wench."

Cyrilla sat in shock. She never expected the young boy to be so offensive. "I meant no offense."

"To me? Or my father?" Sirius said threateningly.

"To y-you, of course," said Cyrilla, unable to keep the stutter from escaping. The young heir's emotional tendency fluctuated in such an abrupt velocity that Cyrilla had no opportunity to even breathe correctly.

"Sirius!" called a voice of a little boy. A younger boy almost identical from Sirius, only less dynamic but above average, stepped into the light.

"Yes?" said Sirius innocently.

The raven haired boy looked from Sirius to Cyrilla and back again. "Mum needs your help."

"My help?" said Sirius incredulously.

"That's what she said."

Sirius puffed in exasperation, striding out the room with what faintly sounded like, "She probably needs me to be disposed of." Cyrilla wondered if she heard wrong. She looked over at the younger Black.

He looked back.

"I'm Regulus."

She sat up a little straighter, blushing internally at how she cowered before Sirius. "I'm Cyrilla Lupin. Are you perhaps the youngest child?"

Regulus rolled his eyes. "Unfortunately, yes."

Without another word, he left the room, leaving Cyrilla to tend for herself. The silence of the empty room calmed her. It was better company than the tangible Black brothers. While she sat and waited, Cyrilla thought of her little boy.

-

"Sirius Orion Black! How dare you romp around with filthy Muggles?"

"I didn't even speak with anyone!" said Sirius, shouting with anger.

"Did you take a shower after coming home?"

"Mother--"

"You could be disease ridden--"

"I am not--"

After the constant interruptions, Sirius had had enough, and from the stiff grumble he deduced his father did as well.

To hinder the argument he knew would last for days, Sirius blurted, "There's a woman out there waiting--"

"A woman!" his mother shrieked.

Sirius winced. A little irritated at being interrupted once again.

"—for you," he continued. "On business."

He hoped the last insertion would cool his mother's fancy of an affair. It only made it worse.

"Is she a whore, Orion?" she spit out.

Orion Black massaged his brow in annoyance.

"How long?"

Orion looked up at his wife.

"How long," she repeated, "have you been with this whore?"

"I don't see how this is any of your concern." Walburga steamed. "We are husband and wife by marriage. Love held no such countenance and commitment."

"Even so," said Walburga, "we have a commitment to each other with or without love."

Sirius tipped out to the door and up the stairs. Through the crack below the door, the shadows of his parent's whipped around, and the voices rose without the impediment of their son. After his escapee, Sirius felt extremely drained. The cushion of the soft comforter lulled him to sleep.

The clock was set for five o' clock.

-

The annoying ringing from the clock went on for seconds and escalated around the walls. A hand appeared out of the crumble of blankets and hunted for the source. Once the hand had contacted the object, the commencement of banging in search for the off switch—the timepiece crashed from the side table, the excessive ringing clamoring against the border in deathly war zone. The arm limped against the bed. The body showed no signs of humoring life.

Sporadic, wild tangles of hair appeared from the shaggy mountain of satin sheets and disappeared behind his cover, repeating the actions once more as if unsure of the state position.

Sirius heaved with grief and slumped back into the cloud fantasy of a dream.

Just as his curtains drooped and readily fastened locks, Regulus bounded into the room and, as sudden as his entrance, the young boy fell over the body of his elder brother—the corpses of prisoners lay hollow with sleep.

"Wake—up—Sirius," Regulus mumbled into the comforter.

Sirius muttered and swatted his brother.

"I have…to wake…you…up…" said Regulus in such a dazed voice.

Sirius rolled over. In one of his many efforts to banish his brother, the elder child kicked his legs. The excess movement only alerted his conscience with sweat stinging his pupils, instantly and temporary blinding the young heir.

What felt like morning to Sirius was actually just a couple of hours since he started his nap. Although still very early, Regulus felt exhausted from the fumes emitted with the presence of both father and mother.

When Walburga found her sons—one of whom she sent to awake the other—both glued to the beds as if their souls had found peace in discreet fantasies, she was tremendously enraged. Not only had she sent Regulus to call his brother to get dressed, but she then happens upon their obvious dismissal of daytime.

Walburga rapped against the nearest article, which happen to be Sirius's now-missing-hour-table.

The boys continued with bare snores.

She pounded her fist.

Sirius yapped his morning mouth but slept on. Regulus moaned, but he made no move to abandon his sweet comfort.

With swift steps Walburga came directly above the boys and ripped the blanket from under Regulus, forcing him into the carpet floor, and Sirius without a cover from the early chill.

Regulus groaned from his position below. He looked up to see a large, angry chin staring—or at least he discerned from the immense threatening beams—in twin directions.

"You're up early this morning, Mum."

Walburga raised an eyebrow.

Sirius fumbled with his stability. His eyes blinked into and out of focus, accentuating his mother's scowl with bushy fields of hair.

"Good morning, Mum. Had a good night?" Sirius beamed drowsily.

From Orion's room Kreacher skipped with fright, and in the drawing room Orion read on as if such was normalcy and order.

Later that evening while Orion and his wife prepared for the dinner party, beside each other in silence, an older house-elf aided the boys for their preparation. Kreacher proceeded as their clothes hanger. Sirius swatted away the old maid's prying hands. She dipped her head in submission.

Sirius buttoned his vest. He could tell this was going to be as revolting as the many other family get-togethers.

-

The party died down.

Orion insisted on accompanying his cousin the Earl Malfoy. The men stepped behind the women, conversing in politics the witches preferred to scorn.

Sirius watched the visitors leave. Speaking of visitors, he wondered if that woman was granted an audience with his father.

He went inside.

-

The coach wriggled over loose stones of granite. The duo couples had entered the forest pass—a shortcut to the Malfoy's grand mansion. The company agreed that the fastest route was ideal, but they didn't anticipate the difficult of the course.

The Earl, faced forward, hands wielding over his cane with an impeccable posture, had his eyes closed with a respectable air. Orion watched him curiously, though it was difficult. The bumps along the road sent flinches through his body. The women fared no better. Their dresses would flap up and around in a frenzy, white underclothes covering their knees and corner of the luxurious couch, as they tried to calm their own beating heart.

Suddenly, the coach fell lopsided in a ditched. Orion held onto the seat; Walburga and the Earless lurched onto their husbands. The Earless had the misfortune of banging her shoulder into her husband's silver cane.

The horses gave whining keens, but from the lack of calls Orion estimated a few deaths in the reduction. The straps were still fastened to the horses, so when they wrestled with the weight of the coach and the slope, the wizards and witches gravitated toward the roof.

Orion spit cloths of the elaborate dress. He could barely take in enough oxygen. He wondered how Walburga could breathe with such a tight corset beneath the mountains of bags.

The Earl tested the handle of the coach. He kicked the door repeatedly until it yielded. Oxygen flooded in, relieving them of certain stress.

The group smoothed their clothing and bounced back to their normal stance. Orion surveyed the surroundings, which felt oddly like the Dark Forest. It must have been the stereotypic morbid atmosphere.

Walburga eyed the driver's bench. "Where is the driver?"

That caught everyone's attention. They searched for the serviceman with no avail; there was neither corpse nor spirit in the ditch except for the mangled body of the horses.

Orion felt eyes burning into his flesh; the hairs on his neck stood up. He turned stiffly.

Malfoy watched the scene fold with cold eyes.

Whispering. Then, a heavy drop.

Orion flickered back to a body—his wife's peerless eyes and frozen expression bore a hole into his memory. He gulped.

Before he could respond, his body froze, and he numbed against the world before him. They didn't kill him with the Avera Kedarva. Just a drip of acid would due.

The Malfoys left him there with the body of his wife. Before he died, Orion thought of his sons. He thought of Regulus. And Sirius.

Although Sirius rebelled against his parental, Orion saw him as the infant in his arms so many years before. They had so much hope for him; Orion and Walburga did. He was, after all, named for the brightest of the stars. _Was it so wrong_, Orion thought, _to ask from such a son?_ He would die without ever reconciling with his son. Sirius wouldn't even grieve for them, but maybe that was for the best.

-

The green ivy wrapped delicately by an artisan around the best coffin money can buy. The graveyard was beautifully landscaped and the fields covered with bouquets and spinners for their loved ones. A raven child stood in silence with the rest of the crowd, his brother on the right as he was to his uncle, as members of close relationships wept, not for the death of these fateful—if not hateful—couples but for the lost of a score mark from the battle of pureblood restoration.

Wealth cannot buy the love desired from the family because emotions of such were stripped bare with a single caress. The oath of a brother brought the family a loving farewell; the quota brought pureblood aristocratic connections together. In the end one shall leave without chains; the other shall pry for escape between the iron gates with no avail—for love cannot be overcome with ease.

Rain alleviated the cries and moans of the graveyard.

Mothers gossiped in groups as they spotted a potential husband for their daughter. The current target was one Sirius Black.

The raven haired child looked over at the girls in their ruffled dresses, silk gloves, and veils put away. The girls mistook his intentions and started a fit of giggling and flirtatious pouting.

He leaned over to Regulus and whispered without taking his striking face away from the hoard of females, "They look like overgrown toads." His brother smiled but said nothing. He smoothed out his suit and smirked.

"One might be your bride one day," said Uncle Alphard, amused. Apparently he wasn't as discreet as he had thought.

Humor sunk right out of the orphan. The comment reminded him of his parents, which reminded him they were no longer here. He couldn't help but feel that everything rushed pass him like the zipping of the magic, and time allowed him no hour for comprehension. Sirius looked at his uncle, searching and needing a role to play. Uncle Alphard watched the passerby emotionless. When he felt an eye upon him, he looked around and then down at his nephew. In Sirius's eyes emotion stirred in such a cauldron that Uncle Alphard couldn't determine.

As the crowd ebbed away, Uncle Alphard said wistfully, "I'm sure he's enjoying life, albeit dead sans children."

Uncle Alphard said no more until it was announced he would adopt the Black children.

* * *

Review?

A/N: I know. It's been a while. Sorry for the terrible writing!


	4. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. I have no related ownership to the books.

AU: Remus Lupin is a squib. Just as his mother reluctantly allows him to integrate into Muggle society, he is bitten. Now, it is impossible for him to live without supervision. Meanwhile, Sirius lives with Uncle Alphard, who inherits the Black family's fortune and manor, after death of parents. As for Remus, a fake Hogwarts letter propels him to Knockturn Alley, where he witnesses a murder and is recruited by Greyback.

A year then passes, yet Remus still cannot mix with his fellow werewolves. A feud for land between centaurs and werewolves rages on as the Ministry withholds more land from the surrounding creatures. Mature, male wolves are required to service; the rest take refuge. One day, Remus wanders too from his surrogate mother and meets Sirius, who mistakes him as a Hogwart's keeper. Remus then occasionally enters the Hogwart's grounds to "bump" into Sirius even going so far as sneaking to a G. Quidditich match, their toughest game of the year. As he wanders farther into Hogwarts, his affect increases as well as his fascination with wizards.

_Humor sunk right out of the orphan. The comment reminded him of his parents, which reminded him they were no longer here. He couldn't help but feel that everything rushed pass him like the zipping of the magic, and time allowed him no hour for comprehension. Sirius looked at his uncle, searching and needing a role to play. Uncle Alphard watched the passerby emotionless. When he felt an eye upon him, he looked around and then down at his nephew. In Sirius's eyes emotion stirred in such a cauldron that Uncle Alphard couldn't determine._

Cyrilla knocked hesitantly and mentally prepped herself for the upcoming interview with—if Lady Lucky favored her—her future employer.

The wryly and ill-humored house elf from her previous visit opened the door. He seemed to carry a heavy burden, for his eyes were blotched and sagged, and his nose leaked intensely. When he saw her, he adopted a permanent scowl as if she was the blemish on the door mat.

Cyrilla coughed lightly and straightened her shoulders. "Where is your master Orion Black? I wish to see him."

The house elf sneered, "Kreacher wonders what such a dirty mudblood wants with master. Mudblood will ruin the house, she will."

Her first encounter with the creature taught her that his nonsense only wasted time so she simply past right passed him. It was harder than it sounded; the little monster was viciously protective of this manor.

Just as the house elf threatened to rip off the sleeves of her good blouse, the Black heir wandered idly with a solemn atmosphere with his brother in toil.

He looked at her blankly. "What do you want?"

"Where is your father?" she snapped rather irritated. "If I do not have a conference with your father, I can just find a job somewhere else. This is a waste of me time." That was far from truth, though. She was desperate for money and had no other decent place to attain it, but Cyrilla thought it would speed the process a little faster. After all, Remus was waiting for her at home.

Sirius did not answer.

"He's not here," his brother replied stiffly.

This was not a good position for her. "Can I contact him by owl?" she tried.

Sirius scoffed. "Quick to change your mind, eh?" His tone was cynical and full of bitter resentment. It took Cyrilla off guard.

"We don't have an owl," said Regulus, giving Sirius a quick glance. "Mum doesn't like them."

"Oh. I see," Cyrilla mumbled.

"It's not like we need another," said Sirius seriously. "When you have Mother's screeches and packages, weekday mail just blows our way!"

Cyrilla smiled. "But how am I to contact your father?" Her confidence was dissolving more and more after each answer, but she had to keep up her façade.

The brothers share a single glance, one without a spark of humor.

"We'll show you," said the brothers simultaneously, Sirius sounded threatening while Regulus was just exhausted. Cyrilla wondered briefly if she should have taken up the house-elf's offer. Nevertheless, she needed to speak with Orion Black so she wordlessly followed the Black children. What harm could children do?

She soon found out. There was a strange bubbling in her stomach, but it wasn't laughter. The children had led her near a room with feet rushing around and the sound of fussing servants. Sirius ushered, much to their displeasure and kicked scraps of cloth to the side. As she came into the room, she spotted a coffin. Sirius motioned her over. She complied. "What is going on?"

He leaned over the coffin. "Here's father." Cyrilla gaped at the corpse in horror. "Talk all you want because he won't be receiving your mail."

--

Strands of thin needles bounced about as the owner wolfed down his supper—stew composed of clumps of—what appears to be—meat and mashed veggies piled into a broth of volcanic mud—with an inhuman appetite. The tables wiggled, sloshing portions of the bowl onto the wooden rectangles, but the young man was too preoccupied on devouring its elliptical travelers—of whom cratered picturesque images of twirling dots. Remus took extra precautions when dealing with this ancient basin. The bowl was neither an heirloom nor an atypical piece; it was simply a dished walled by curling mold, and Remus adored it.

He traced his long, slight finger tips along the streams of the painted design, along cracked ceramic of random combustion in the fantasy earth, and skittered around the tricky curves. Remus smiled pensively.

The front door kicked and dented its navel half in an attempt for release. The _thud _continued with such muddled curses that Remus could no longer ignore the nightly visitor. The chair groaned as he stood up. The knob shook, and then the banging of a nightly ritual cornered the young man in a musical box of obstructive creation.

"Coming!" he called.

The bang stopped, but the rusted knob gave one last twitch. "Remy...open the door."

He grasped the handle and yanked the door, along with its leech, from the elongated frame. A mesh of electrocuted bush crowned Cyrilla's top. "Thank you," she panted. "…dear."

Remus grinned. "Welcome home, Mum."

Cyrilla rolled her eyes toward her son and smiled weakly. It felt as if she ran a mile in a few seconds and—in that time—left her ghostly figure behind. She checked her purse as Remus closed the door behind her. The crumbled magical card with a fine print of Orion…and then smeared message prodded her finger. Cyrilla heaved and hiccupped. Of all the things left behind, anxiety stayed so closely attached.

"Mummy."

He didn't call her that often. Every time he said that it came out as a plead, his vulnerable so apparent. This always made her uncomfortable. Cyrilla breathed and turned toward her child—a task so painstakingly slows.

"Yes, dear?" she croaked.

"What are we going to do about the door?" Remus tilted his head to the doorway, where the dented half threatened to break off anytime. Her face downed.

"Oh—oh—oh," she rubbed her pressure points and walked into the kitchen, flipped open the fire latch, and sank down to her knee. Remus followed and watched her, not apprehensively but certainly not energetically; he just watched her and peered at the stove out of the corner of his eye, and said nothing.

Everything in the Lupin's perimeter seemed to pause; there was no sound large enough to overcome the sobbing of Ms. Lupin, and after some time, the silence became unbearable to the boy, so he kneeled down beside his mother and tapped her on the shoulder. "Mum, do you think I'll get my Hogwarts invitation soon?"

Remus was eleven now, and in due time he would receive his Hogwarts letter. It couldn't be long from now, thought. After all, he was already eleven, and school was starting up again. No longer would he have to watch other children in their unsoiled uniforms and brand new backpacks (of course, he was fine with second-hand) head off to school while he waited at home. Although being homeschooled with his mother wasn't awful, Remus preferred to attend school with other children his age. Besides, Cyrilla could not afford to stay home long enough for the sessions to even be considered to productive.

The little boy waited for an answer; his mother took long to answer, but he had developed a sense of patience over the years. At the moment Remus thought his mother's eye appeared lifeless, but he convinced himself it was the dull lighting. "School's starting soon," he reminded his mother.

But that only strengthen his mother's sensitivities. She burst out in tears and curled against herself. Sometimes when he tried to pacify her, he would find himself clamping onto her wrists with his small hands to prevent her from scratching her skin as she attempted to muffle her sobs, and he was up all night with warm tea to calm her. It is needlessly to say that both mother and child did not sleep a wink even with the spare time of the early morning.

The trumpet-like chirps fluttered above Hogwart's very own lake as birds twittered around empty lots of grass and gravel. Within the walls of Hogwarts, paper marshe frittered around the massive walls of the Great Hall and then packed together in a fuzzy of twirling shredded paper. As abruptly as it started, the twister came to a halt, and the clutter of fragmented pieces bundled together to form a single parchment. The corners twitched and seemed to cluster over each in an effort to complete their necessary destiny of gloating origami.

The group of boys fiddled with their wands in an effort to mimic their neighbor's simple but impeccable feat. A youth with short-cropped hair and thick glasses was not fazed by his best friend's advancement in magic. Afterward, it was not like he fell short; they learned _everything _together. Therefore, everything one mastered, so did the other. But even with the fun the children were having, the hot weather was practically unbearable to a youth who was watching his brother and his friends' joyful faces intently.

"Sirius, it's hot. Can't we go in?" said Regulus, trying to conceal his irritated whine.

Sirius glanced at his brother. "We can't go in. Don't you remember? Uncle Alphard is talking with Dumbledore."

"I know, but can't we play under the shades?"

"We probably should," said James. His skin was slightly pink in certain areas from the heat, making him appear as the outer skin of a ripe peach. Sirius bit back a comment; he knew from experience that it wouldn't be funny later on.

Sirius nodded, mumbling, "Yeah, okay."

He looked around the field, stopping at the eerily forest far beyond the Hogwarts yard. "How 'bout over there?"

Sirius didn't wait for the group's answer. He just sauntered over to the edge of the grassland with his curiosity peaking with each step. It wouldn't hurt to familiarize himself of Hogwart's pathways. Although they weren't students yet, the children had all receive their invitation and most had all of their school supplies ready. It was odd that his uncle was so adamant on visiting Dumbledore today, but if that meant that the boys could tour Hogwarts, he didn't question it.

"Sirius!" yelled Regulus, snapping his older brother out of his daydream. "Where are you going?"

Sirius rolled his eyes. Regulus was no longer a baby but constantly clung onto Sirius. His brother efforts for comfort escalated after the death of their parents. He relentlessly shadowed Sirius and whiningly

His brother ignored him, intent on dragging his hands through piles of garbage. Sirius's fingers rummaged through cracks and broken fragments of lumber. He lifted plank of wood, which he perceived to have once been a sign, and peered underneath.

"What are you looking for?" asked Regulus suspiciously. Sirius did not answer. Instead, he dropped the wooden structure and continued pass his brother.

He had lost his precious wand while flaunting his technical skills on Uncle Alphard's broom. His uncle had left it along with the boys unattended at the Quidditch field, just in the proximity of Hogwarts students, while he visited Professor Dumbledore. The first year students were preparing for their very basic lesson of broom aviation. As the brothers made their way through the clear-cut field, Sirius glanced jealously at the first year students. To Sirius, the students, although older than he, were ignorant and obnoxious, blinded by their overwhelming pride. _If I could handle a broom_, he thought, _I bet I could beat the lot of them._

At this age, Sirius was an aggressive lad with inexperience driving him to higher and higher heights, almost literally at times. He wanted so much to be great that he forget where such notions originated and he didn't care.

Together, the three companions snuck into the Quidditch supply room and grabbed three decent-looking brooms. As they came onto the field with brooms dragging behind them, the boys felt as if they complete a year's worth of epic heroism. Now, they only needed to learn _how_ to ride brooms.

The hardest part of riding a broom was getting the first lift. After that Sirius found ease riding, but he didn't dare to apply tricks on his first try. The other boys seemed to agree with him. James was quite the expert, gliding with only a few bumps here and there; Regulus, too, was a fairly moderate flyer, but he stayed about three feet from the ground.

The three spent their remaining time at Hogwarts practicing turns and light dives, basking in their youth, oblivious to the many hardship of the future. The future was far too distant for worry. As Sirius beamed over his shoulder, he saw the equally cheerful faces of James and Regulus. For now, the future could wait.

A/N: School is slightly killing me…sorry for the slow update. It might not be up to your expectations after all that waiting. I still appreciate my small audience! Thank you for reading!


	5. Chapter 4

_The three spent their remaining time at Hogwarts practicing turns and light dives, basking in their youth, oblivious to the many hardship of the future. The future was far too distant for worry. As Sirius beamed over his shoulder, he saw the equally cheerful faces of James and Regulus. For now, the future could wait._

Chapter 4

Remus stepped quickly and perfunctorily to the entrance of the Ministry of Magic, curving along narrow passage ways so familiar that they no longer held a cold spell over his emotions. Fellow magic-folks screened their way pass him—most carrying the same dull air as him. At the age of thirteen and a quarter, Remus was a wiry youth with tan curls cascading just below his ears. Fortunately, he had a hair cut that morning to prevent his tresses from becoming a full-blown mane, but it didn't stop snippets of rebellious strands from appearing here and there. His mother thought it was her best work. _It would be_, he thought, _because it was her first._

When he passed the many crooked signs and grumpy workers, Remus came to a roll of chairs and sat, leaving about two chairs on either side of him open. Occasionally, he would examine his neighbors, pretending he was searching for a clock when they caught his eye.

The chap next to him didn't seem to mind his constant unsettled self. He was a large man with callous skin and dark, straight hair. He often smiled at Remus empathetically, which neither soothe nor offended the boy. Then, there was Ms. Habbitors, a small woman who preferred not to involve herself with "such people," in other words, werewolves (although she was one herself). Remus met Ms. Habbitors on his second visit to the Werewolf section. His first impression was that she was a fail woman who, like himself, was fairly new. Although she didn't seem to desire his company, she did not outright reject the boy and introduced herself as Ms. Charlotte Habbitors of two streets down the road. He had a feeling she wasn't being completely honest. Yet as a young boy, he couldn't detain his curiosity and so questioned her with redundant phrases without expecting an answer.

"Eno'gh already, boy," said the man beside Remus. "Havn't ye 'ad yer fill yet?"

The man had a distinct accent yet the boy couldn't decide which country it belonged. He didn't quite care. If it was foreign to him, then it was surely _just _foreign. At that moment Remus created a country for the man and named it after him. "No, sir," he replied as politely as he could muster. To Remus, the man was more like him than Ms. Habbitors, and he didn't want to offend a prospective friend.

"Sumin' werg width ye head, then?" the man teased.

Remus shook his head. In the corner of his eye, he noticed Ms. Habbitors's discomfort. She was pale with a touch of abnormal coloring around her cheeks. "What's ye nem?"

"Remus." He turned towards Ms. Habbitors as he replied. He couldn't shake off the overwhelming curiosity of his. "Ms. Habbitors, what's the matter?"

Ms. Habbitors flinched a little too dramatically. She looked from Remus to the man and then back again with such furious movement it was a miracle her eyes did not pop out of her sockets.

"Ms. Habbitors?" asked the young werewolf with feint-worry.

"Are ye ill, Ma'am?" The man came closer to Ms. Habbitors and kneeled when he reached a seat away from her. Looking her in the eyes, he said, "Name's Jim Morton. And ye, Ma'am?"

She was silent for a while. "Miss…Habbitors."

Jim grinned. "Nice meetin' ye, Ms. Habbitors."

Ms. Habbitors visibly relaxed as if she thought he wasn't so bad after all. Remus, however, noticed that Jim's accent didn't seem so heavy, but he decided not to comment on it.

Just then, a plain woman with an upturned nose looked around the room. "Remus John Lupin."

Remus jumped and turned towards his fellow werewolves. "That's me!"

As the lady ushered him away from the group, he gave a slight wave to Jim, who bobbed his head and gave a lopsided grin, and Ms. Habbitors, who just smiled weakly.

It felt strange to see his new friends disappear behind a single door. Remus felt a hollow flicker within his chest as the dull walls morphed into a dark, ominous gray. He didn't like these gray walls, preferring the dull atmosphere of the waiting room.

He wondered if the lady felt the same.

Remus examined the plain woman. From his view her nostrils were too large, and her cheeks were excessively dabbed with artificial color, curtained at various intervals by her bobbed hair, which was sheared crookedly at the back.

"Where are we going?" asked Remus. This was routine. He didn't feel comfortable unless he knew the exact location of his destination, and he felt even more anxious with a new face.

The lady hummed knowledgably but only said, "You'll see soon." There was a hint of something in her voice, the only she was willing to express as of yet. "I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise for you now, hm?"

He fidgeted with his sleeves and attempted to pull out of her grip. She only heard on tighter and continued with fast pace, ignoring the squealing of his footwear. He was literary kicking at the reflecting floors, grunting and whining.

"Where are we going?" He settled on that question. She glanced down him but did not dare loosen her vice-grip.

"I answered that already," said the woman snappily.

Suddenly, her ugly faced blurred (and part of him was thankful). He felt a bundle of tear filling the rims of his eyes. It was as if she explicitly desired to steal away his sense of power, he thought. He felt so weak and caged. Moreover, he didn't want to be here at this facility. There was something different today, and he feared it somehow involved him and tremendous pain, possibly a pool of blood. Just like in those books he read.

His breathe quicken, and tears streamed left stains upon his cheeks on its regular voyage, but the woman remained passive to their fears. To her, he was monster, intent on mass murder by contagions. When she thought of all the lives she could save by ridding this boy, she felt a quench of excitement and couldn't help the sense of superiority she felt over his small frame. The boy was a pup, helpless and inexperience, she mused. It was better to get them now while they were meek than allow them to continue and wreak havoc on the Wizarding World.

Fortunately for Remus, the werewolf specialists had another agenda that day other than to torture the young werewolf. The "check-up," however, was not painless. Nevertheless, young Remus felt a tad bit embarrassed by his previous fears.

After the examination, the specialists asked him confusing questions and explained a new regulation, but all that rubbish didn't hold his attention for long. Instead, he began intently focused on the wall hangings and his morphed face reflected on shiny objects. One of the staff members, however, frowned slightly and scribbled on a clipboard. When they didn't hear his reply, they thought he was stupid but continued to question him, "Where is your guardian, Remus Lupin?"

"Searching for work," he answered immediately. After the initial shock gave way, he felt oddly comfortable. He was a child, after all, and they couldn't do something terribly horrendous to a child.

"Will she pick you up?"

"Yes, sir. She's probably coming soon." At least he hoped. But that answer was enough to convince the specialists, who nodded once and jotted something down on their clipboards. Remus watched them curiously. Their fingers moved in a secret rhythm, each messaging signs to another.

One of the specialists paused form her writing and looked up. "Do you have any further questions?" He shook his head, negative. She smiled plastically. "I bet you'd rather be sitting out in the waiting room than being cooped up with smelly healers."

"No, I--"

She straightened and waved one of the employees over. "Can you please bring Remus Lupin to the waiting room?"

The employee nodded and ushered Remus out.

_At least I get to see Ms. Habbitors and Jim, _he thought.

There was an awkward silence between the two, stretching the length of the hallway with each passing minute.

The employee coughed. "So, Remus…How old are you?"

"Eleven."

"Really?" he feigned a surprise look. "My little girl is about your age. She's entering Hogwarts soon." He paused. "My wife and I hope she will enter the Ravenclaw House. She's smarter as a whip."

The topic greatly interested the eleven-year-old. "I'll be going to Hogwarts, too." The man looked down at him sharply. "I just have to wait for my letter. When do you think it'll come by?"

"It depends, Remus." The man looked slightly disturbed. Remus could tell by the concentration of wrinkles on his forehead. "Every letter arrive…"

"Late to some households?" Remus finished.

The man nodded slowly. "Er…Yes, of course."

"I'm just afraid that they missed my house. It's kind of small." There was a light misstep in the boy's walk as if the thought completely submerged his consciousness in fear.

The doorway was just ahead. The employee pushed the door slightly and Remus thanked him. Before the door shut behind the boy, the employee popped his head into the waiting room. It was a strange sight: his head floated between the margins of the dully light Waiting Room and the eerie, chilly hallways of the Werewolf Center. "Remus." The young werewolf looked expectantly at the employee. "Hogwarts letters always find the wizard."

Remus beamed naively.

* * *

A/N: Please don't hesitate to review! Just no flames, please. I love reviews! 3

-

_Dear Bedraggled Atelier,_

_I ___ this chapter, but [INSERT comment] the story. Throughout the chapter, however, I noticed the _____ reactions of the staff, the hidden messages of the employee, and the body language of the werewolves._

_Sincerely,_

_[Your Name]_

_P.S. This chapter did not introduce the ____ theme. Perhaps next chapter then?_


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